


The Realignment Theory

by cellard00rs



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Angst, M/M, Romance, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-12 19:21:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28515603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cellard00rs/pseuds/cellard00rs
Summary: Ford uses the portal for something else entirely and the consequences are beyond comprehension. 30!Ford/Teen!Stan AU
Relationships: Stanford Pines/Stanley Pines
Comments: 16
Kudos: 77





	1. Chapter 1

Ford doesn’t have much time.

The portal is a swirling, writhing mass of light, of energy, and the calculations he put into the computer…

This might not work. It probably won’t work. Jesus - please, please, _please_ let this work.

He’s exhausted. His eyes are burning and he feels outside of his own body. He’s walking death and he knows this is what he deserves. He’s played fast and loose with the laws of physics, pushed the threshold of scientific inquiry – he’s been playing God and now he has to face the consequences. Fiddleford was right to abandon this project, to abandon him, their friendship – it hadn’t felt that way at the time, but the man’d made the right choice.

 _This is an obsession, Stanford_ , Fiddleford’s voice had been tired and with the barest hint of disgust, _I know why you are doing this. I understand. I sympathize. I do. But this isn’t what_ he _would’ve wanted. This isn’t what_ anyone _in their right mind would want. You have to let it go – let_ him _go. You have to move on._

But Ford can’t. He just…he can’t.

And while Fiddleford made the right choice, Ford knows he still has to push through this – he has to see his goal realized. His dreams and his dreams…can’t trust his dreams, can’t trust anything, anyone…Cypher is…

“No, no, no,” he mutters madly under his breath and continues fiddling with the controls of the portal. The sound of its buzzing and crackling grows louder, more chaotic. Objects around him begin to rise, gravity loosening its hold on random objects, but not him. He’s heavy and sunken – a stone dug deep into the earth and he has scant seconds.

Any moment Cypher might take hold. Any moment the monster might realize his true aim. Cypher lied to him, seduced him – he’d pretended to care. He’d done everything in his insidious power to help Ford, but it had all been a lie. He hadn’t wanted the same things Ford had. He’d merely wanted the portal – he’d shifted it’s intended purpose to bring his nightmarish dimension into their own.

That wasn’t what Stanford wanted. He didn’t want to open a portal to other dimensions…not exactly. All he wanted, the whole reason for this, was to right a wrong. A wrong he’s responsible for. A wrong he’ll see corrected come hell or high water. It’s too late for him. He’s damned and damaged beyond repair.

…but, by God, he’ll see this through. He’ll get this done. If it’s the last thing he ever does.

…which it probably will be.

This in mind, he continues his tinkering. The portal’s power grows in intensity, the floating objects suddenly being swept inside its gapping maw, disappearing into the blinding light. But then? Then the polarity….shifts. With a few deft flicks of his fingers, with a harsh tug on a nearby generator switch, the portal begins to pulsate outwards.

“Come on, come on, come on…” Ford whispers desperately in the control booth, “Please, please… _please_ …”

A thundering boom explodes through the air and the portal locks on to…something. A dark, hulking form appears on the other side and Ford squints at, one arm raised, the blinding light coming from the portal unbearable to witness and then a sound…

…a car engine…

A hysterical laugh cuts through Ford as the sounds of the portal, and that of the vehicle’s, converge. They grow deafening in their cacophony and then, beneath that, very lightly – he can hear the hiss of a snake – a triangular tricker – that spits, “ _What are you doing? This isn’t-?! Stanford Pines, you sonofabitch! I’ll gut you alive and eat your eyeeezzzz_ -!”

The threat is in his head, in his heart, in his mind and Ford clutches at his skull and closes his eyes and he doesn’t care. Let it come. Let death take him. Let Cypher skin him, slit his throat from ear to ear…he recognizes the sound of that engine. He’s done it. He’s done what he had to do, what _he_ wanted to do. Cypher deluded him, led him down the wrong path…the little demon did all he could to turn the portal towards something else, something sinister.

But here – in this dark and final hour – Stanford has managed to do what’s necessary. He’s managed to keep his inmost thoughts and desires locked away just long enough to use this portal for its intended purpose. A scream rips through him at the exact same moment that the portal explodes as – from its wild, rippling heart– it expels a red 1965 El Diablo.

The car lurches forward like a bullet from a gun and crashes into the nearest wall before the portal tears itself apart. Large chunks collapse in on one another and then it just…dies. Everything that hasn’t been sucked into the vortex falls, the lights sputter and fail, the lab plunges itself into a deep darkness and Ford? Ford collapses.

+

A wracking cough is the first thing Stan hears.

It takes him a few minutes to realize he’s the one doing it. Groaning, he rubs at the back of his neck and opens his eyes. The taste of coppery blood fills his mouth and he’s…staring at a stone wall. The windshield before him is cracked – shattered – and through the spiderweb cracks in the glass he can just make out that the hood of the Diablo is all crumpled up; crushed like an aluminum can. The headlights are still on, but it all looks…bad. Very bad.

He…got in an accident? With a building?

“…th’ h’ll?” he croaks in a slur, wincing as he starts to move. Grey stream curls up from his car and his limbs feel leaden. Leaden, but otherwise intact. For fuck’s sake…he hadn’t been driving _that_ fast. Had he? And crashing into a wall? How the fuck-? Groaning, he opens the driver’s side door and spills out onto a cold concrete floor.

He eyes it dubiously and then looks around. He’s…not outside? He’s inside? Inside some building and he crashed into one of its walls but how on earth-? Slowly rising, knees unsteady jelly, he takes in his surroundings. This…isn’t Jersey. He’s in some…weird tech lab? There are gadgets and gizmos all around him and hey, did he sign up for some science experiment?

He’s been rather itchy for cash of late, but he feels like he would remember that. Hell, what _is_ the last thing he remembers? Let’s see…he’d wasted another day at the beach, his metal detector a piece of shit, but – no surprise – considering he’d ‘burrowed’ it from Vinny Defso’s garage.

Vinny always did have nothing but junk in there. Well, junk and a couple of car parts that Stan, again, ‘burrowed’. Mostly to sell for scrap metal. It’s surprising how much a guy can make off scrap. Hell, that’s pretty much all he’s doing with the detector – finding and selling scrap. He sure as fuck hasn’t found any gold.

He’d just been reaching a point of thinking he’ll sell the detector for scrap too, ‘cause hey, a guy’s gotta eat, when he noticed a billboard talking about going into sales…

…sales and he’d gone to his car. He’d gotten in and just started to drive and holy shit, it’d been _daytime_. It doesn’t look like daytime now. And it _definitely_ doesn’t look like outside. Again – science-y shit everywhere. Stan rises slowly to his feet, looking around warily as he clears his throat with another cough, voice dry as he calls out, “…there?”

Not a full sentence. Okay. Try again.

Stan licks his lips to wet them, scowling at his second taste of blood, “An-anybody there?”

No answer.

He carefully dances around some debris and other junk. Was this all from the crash? Nah, can’t be. This place looks like it’s a warzone. Chunks of rock and wires and he keeps hearing these strange buzzings and whirring pops…it makes him think of how a place might look after a serious fire or an explosion and then he finally picks up on a groaning sound.

A person!

He clambers over some rubble, talking to the unknown, “Yo! Who’s out there? You alright?”

Stanley can’t be sure, but the groan sounded masculine, and he suddenly sees a doorframe. Splintered wood and glass are all around it and it looks sort of warped. Still, he manages to edge his way through it and he finds himself in front of a bunch of electrical panels and strange bubble screens – like televisions, but different – strange lights flickering over them – like code and all this shit looks _expensive_. Futuristic.

What doesn’t, is the guy on the floor. He’s a mess. Crumpled on his front, a dirty trench coat covering him and Stan approaches cautiously, “Whoa – hey, you-you okay there, bud?”

The man rolls over and Stan…stops.

The man on the floor…

He looks up at Stan, his glasses broken, his nose and mouth bleeding and he _smiles_. He smiles a smile that immediately makes Stan’s whole heart stutter, stop, his body lost in waves of fire and ice all at once. More so, when he breathes, “Stanley…”

“H-how-?” Stan shakes his head, “How do you…know my name?”

It’s a stupid question. Stan _knows_ how. But he can’t believe it. He can’t accept it. The man before him, the injured one on the floor, the one who is slowly rolling up into a seated position, the one who is carefully rising to his feet…he has six fingers on each hand. And he has Stan’s face. Stan’s face albeit more rugged, older – older and smarter and better and…

“…Stanford?” he breathes and the man before him, the man who can’t be his twin brother but _is_ , nods.

“Yes, Stanley. It’s me.”

The two just stare at one another. Silence dominates everything. There’s little light. The noises around them are unmemorable, forgettable. There’s nothing but this. Nothing but them. Confusion and terror and grief roll all around inside Stan, a thunderstorm of conflict, but when he finally speaks next, his voice is terribly small, “You’re…older.”

A watery laugh escapes Ford.

Stan’s lips twitch, unable not to when his brother laughs (and that laugh – oh god, that _laugh_ – so familiar but so different now – deeper, smokier) “I mean like….ancient.”

“Y-yeah. I…I suppose I am.”

“Sixer…” Stan waves all around him, “What-? What _is_ all this?”

Ford comes closer and, oh, he’s taller now? Stan looks up at him and feels a prickle of annoyance at this revelation, but it’s quickly dashed away as Ford whispers, “What’s the last thing you remember?”

“Huh,” Stan grumbles, “Funny you should ask. That was my first thought when I came to in my car.”

“Your car,” Ford’s gasp cuts him off and it sounds as if it’s sucker punched from him, “Were-were you driving-?”

“Uhhhh, yup? Just left the beach and-?”

“The beach?” Ford interrupts again and Stan glares at him, “Yeah, Sixer – the _beach_. Kinda LIVE there now! Well, there and my car since Dad tossed me out on my keester and YOU turned your back on me and-!”

“How long?” Ford interrupts and his eyes are…just a little crazy. Crazy and intense and Stan finds himself reluctant to answer when Ford’s hands shoot out and grip his arms tightly, “How long, Stanley!? How long have you-?”

“ _Jesus_!” Stan snaps and roughly tugs himself out of Ford’s grip, anger boiling to the surface, “About a month, alright?! You lousy asshole! I’ve been outta the house and on my own for about a month!”

Ford’s mad eyes now begin roaming and roving all over the place and he looks…beyond sanity. Stan has never seen him look like this. Okay, that’s not entirely true – one time Ford stayed up to watch a 48 hour sci-fi movie marathon and he’d looked sort of squirrelly then, but this…this is new levels of strange. And then Ford lets out a twisted chuckle, “ _Of course_! Of course…alternative universal parameters, dimensional shifts, chronical realignments…”

Stan snaps his fingers loudly in front of his brother’s face. Ford jerks back as if struck. Stan feels a moments guilt, but only a moment because, hey, an explanations would be nice, “Hey! Poindexter – wanna share with the rest of the class?”

Ford blinks owlishly at him, “You’re not from Dimension ‘52/.”

That is not at all what Stan is expecting to hear and his head rears back, “Say what now?”

His brother turns to one of the electrical panels and he begins poking at it, fiddling with some of the knobs, “Perhaps ‘51/ or maybe even ‘49/? I knew I should have done better calibrations on that installed Sanchez drive…and the works I read by Walter Bishop were so advanced even _I_ struggled with the minutiae of what he suggested one put into any sort of trans-dimensional matrix converter and-!”

“FORD,” Stan practically shouts and Ford turns back to him, eyes wide. Stan sighs, happy to have his attention even if his patience is growing thin, “English, please!”

“You _ARE_ Stanley Pines,” Ford says simply, “But not _MY_ Stanley Pines. You’re from another dimension.”

That declaration settles over them both as silence returns. Again, Stan breaks it, “Bullshit.”

“No, no,” Ford removes his broken glasses, eyes them disdainfully, “I’m-I’m afraid not. Either you are from another dimension or an alternative timeline or perhaps a parallel universe…”

“I take it there are differences between alla those?”

“Well-!” Ford draws in an excited breath but Stan quickly waves that away, “Wait, wait! Naw, naw! I-I don’t want to hear your no doubt _super_ nerdy explanation. Sure you’d love to give it, but…think I’ll pass – I wouldn’t follow it anyways! So, let-let me just get this straight…”

He looks at Ford, looks all around the two of them, and does his best to answer his own questions, “…you’re not _my_ Ford. I didn’t just-just time travel inta the future or sumpin’? I’m-I’m from somewhere else? Some other world?”

Ford looks unhappy with this summation; but seems to decide it’s the best one that can be offered to Stanley, so he puts his glasses back on and nods, “Simply put – yes.”

“How do you know-?”

“My, ah, Stanley…he-he wasn’t gone for a month.”

“No?” Stan asks and then…then Ford looks different. No longer insane, no, but worse. Worse, because he looks so goddamn sad. Tragic. He looks emotionally gutted and a cold, sinking feeling begins to grow in the pit of Stan’s stomach, “H-how long was he-?”

“He-he never left. Not-not really,” Ford looks away from Stan. No. More accurately, he can’t look at him. His words warble as he speaks in the lowest and quietest of tones, “That night…the night our Father evicted you…him…the night I turned away….he got in his car and he drove and he…I don’t think he knew how fast he was going…”

The words die off. Not that Stan needs them. He might not be a genius like his Poindexter twin, but he doesn’t need to be to get the gist. But the thought of it – of another version of him on that night – feeling those same feelings as he drove away, as his Father tossed him out, as his brother turned away…

That’s what sparks Stan to baldly say, “Your Stan…he’s dead…”

Ford’s eyes lock with his at that.

“…ain’t he.”

It’s not a question. Clearly. It doesn’t need to be. Ford’s eyes are glazed and bloodshot and Stan’s pretty damn sure he knows why. He looks around the disaster zone they’re currently languishing in and coughs, one hand going to scratch at the back of his head, “Can-? Can we get out of here? Go…go someplace else ta talk?”

For awhile Ford doesn’t react, his eyes still just locked with his. But then, finally, he nods.


	2. Chapter 2

They take the elevator upstairs in silence. They walk through the house and move into the kitchen and the whole time, the whole time – Ford can’t take his eyes off of him. His brother, his twin, Stanley Pines – _alive_. Alive and whole and here and yes, he’s not _exactly_ Ford’s Stan. He’s not the Stan from this dimension – but he’s _A_ Stan and he’s…here.

Here and breathing and looking exactly like Ford remembers him. A burly body that might someday give way to something thicker – a light dusting of healing acne on his chin, white shirt, jeans – the greaser hair style and his eyes…

Eyes warm and dark like a fine cognac and those eyes look around with narrowed speculation, “Where the heck are we, anyways?”

“This is my house.”

Stan turns to Ford with some surprise, “No shit?”

“Language, Stanley…” Ford starts but his brother just blows a raspberry in his direction at that, “Come on, don’t give me that shit. You can’t blame me for being surprised. This is your place – you live here?”

“That’s generally what one does in a house they own, yes.”

“Smart ass,” he chuckles and Ford finds himself smiling, albeit weakly. Exhaustion is showering down on him now – the adrenaline from before slowly leeching away to remind him that he hasn’t had a good night’s rest in ages. He feels boneless and light, but with limbs made of concrete. His eyes ache and at this point his brain is a useless hunk of meat in his skull.

Stan, for his part, seems cavalier as he opens a couple of cabinets to peek inside, “You got anything ta eat in this shack?”

Ford grumbles as he collapses into one of the kitchen chairs, his chin falling to rest on one of his upturned palms, “It’s not a ‘shack’.”

Stan finds a bag of chips and eyes them before shaking his head and tossing them aside, “You take a look around lately, Sixer? Place is a bit of a dump. Ma’ll have your hide if she sees how messy you’ve become.”

Another smile twitches at Ford’s lips. He wants to say ‘true enough’ but speaking seems like too much of an effort right now. Besides, he enjoys looking at Stanley more. This beautiful living creature that grimaces at another bag of food he inspects, “Everything here’s not just expired – it’s _fossilized_. Good god, bro – what do you do? Live on take out?”

“Gravity Falls doesn’t have it,” Ford yawns, “Last I checked.”

“Gravity what now?”

He draws in a hefty breath through his nose and waves his free hand about, “Gravity Falls. ‘S the town we’re in, where I live.”

“Never heard of it,” Stan starts picking through the pantry, moving aside various cans and talking over one shoulder, “It in Jersey?”

“…your way of speaking is atrocious.”

“Your face is atrocious,” is the automatic reply and Ford really does smile now - a loopy, happy feeling filling him up, making him feel warm right down to his toes, “Oregon.”

Stan turns around and he’s holding a can of beans, eyes wide, “Oregon? We’re in OREGON?”

“You make it sound sordid.”

“Sor-?” Stan sputters and points the can at Ford, “We’re completely across country, Sixer! I mean, I know you talked about West Coast Tech, but-!”

“I couldn’t stay,” Ford cuts in and now, not only is he more awake, more lucid – he’s freezing. Icy. His voice taking on that same temperature, “Not after what happened to you.”

Stan’s hand involuntarily curls harder around the can he’s holding, his expression difficult to decipher. Ford’s never been good with these sort of things – the subtlety of emotion. He’s even less of an expert in his current state. It’s not as if he’s at his best these days – physically or mentally. But somehow he manages to pick up that Stan’s…apprehensive.

Hesitant.

It’s not a trait his brother normally carries. Normally Stan just rushes out – bold, brash…wonderful. A force of nature brought to life in a body with a mouth to match. Wild and unpredictable and a bit of hellion but with a heart of gold. A heart Ford never appreciated enough and while he knows he’s not at all the best at this, he feels he’s right this time – that he knows what his twin is thinking, “You want to know more about what happened, don’t you? More about what happened when you…when _he_ …died.”

The words hang there between them. Neither of them move. They just…look at one another. Let that sink in. Eventually (finally) Stan moves, setting the can down between them on the table before he takes up a seat opposite his brother. His brother who now can’t bear to look at him, instead focusing on his hands (all those fingers) as he continues quietly, “You mentioned our mother earlier and I…”

He doesn’t know why he starts here, but he does, “I-I haven’t talked to her in months.”

Ford can clearly recall his mother’s face – the last time he’d seen it. He knows she’d look different now. Older, perhaps even harder, her hair no doubt taking on a grey hue at this point. Or perhaps not. Perhaps vanity would call for dye. He can’t say he would blame her – vanity is a trait they share in common.

It’s a trait that led to…

“That night…” an intake of breath. A sigh. Eyes closing and lips moving to speak.

“… _the_ night, that Dad kicked you out, we got a call. It was-? Think it was well past midnight. Three AM? Four? Doesn’t matter. It’s all a blur. Even to this day. Anyway, call came in from the local police. There’d been an accident. They wanted us to come, they wanted us to…”

Another breath, this one ringing out with severity.

“…I didn’t see you. Just Mom and Dad. But I knew. I…I felt it,” he starts rubbing his chest, one hand right over his heart in circles, over and over, “There was this-this hole. This empty feeling. Like-Like a part of me was…gone. Just… _gone_. And I knew…”

Lips compress together hard. The hand stops. The voice is dead.

“There was no recovery. Not from that. Not with how it all happened. Our parents…their marriage…” his hand falls from his chest, hits his lap limply, “It fell apart. The three of us just…fractured. Went our separate ways. Me to a cheap community college, our mother to her parents, and our father…”

A huff that could be construed as a laugh, but definitely should not be considered one, escapes, “I don’t know. Truly. I…I said some things to him. Horrible, horrible things…things I can’t repeat. Things I don’t want to, things I’m…I’m not even sure I remember right…but; suffice to say, I haven’t spoken to him even longer than I haven’t spoken to her.”

There’s a loud swallow and it echoes. It reverberates around them, a throbbing painful hum. Slowly, ever so slowly, Ford feels himself come back to himself, back to the shell that’s his body. He hovers within it, cradled in skin and bone and feeling…feeling so numb, yet more present than ever before as he murmurs, “But the true blame, I know…I’ve always known…lies with me.”

Tears grow - coalescing under his eyelids, building to a firm ball in the hollow of his throat – and his voice turns ragged, “I should never have turned away from you. I should never have lost my temper. I should have tried to see things from your point of view. I should have been reasonable. I sh-should-should-sh-sh-should…”

The wheels are coming off and everything is breaking. Breaking and falling apart and the weight of it all – of everything – crashes down on him with such force that Stanford Pines shatters apart, voice cracking over a whimper, “…I should have been _smarter_.”

And then Stan is there.

Ford didn’t hear Stan get up, but Stan is there, behind him, cradling him close – burying his face in Ford’s hair and whispering, “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

Everything that’s happened to him – everything he’s been through – everything Bill Cypher has done and tried…

…and this, this is what breaks him apart. This is what destroys him.

+

Stan’s never seen Ford cry like this.

Not ever.

Not even when they were babies.

Ford is overwhelmed with gut wrenching sobs, weeping like his very heart is breaking, and maybe it is. Stan’s certainly is. He’s crying too, but his tears are soft – silent. He’s not even sure his twin is aware of them and – to be honest – he’s kind of glad for the anonymity. Stan’s never thought of himself as much of a crier. But it’s impossible not to, when his brother’s broken down like this.

When he’s said to Stan all the things Stan’s wanted to hear since…well, since that night. The night, apparently, that he survived and some other version of him did not. And he gets it. He gets what the other Stan went through. Because he went through it too. True, he didn’t get in a car accident – he certainly didn’t _die_ – but he easily could have.

That night is seared into his memory. The pain of it, the grief. The heightened emotions and general despair of it all. His life as he’d known it had ended that night. He’d lost his brother - his family – his _everything_. Alive, yes, but with nothing. No one. Stanley Pines had been truly and utterly alone for the first time in his entire existence. It’d been terrifying, heartbreaking…but he’d survived. And some other version of him didn’t.

The version _this_ Ford knew.

…another dimension…

…or timeline or universe or…holy, Jesus, fuck! Stan’s life is _weird_.

He draws back and lets Ford collect himself. His brother’s face is hidden in his hands, shoulders still shaking, but Stan can tell his tears are losing steam. As such, Stan pulls himself together and does what any member of the Pines family would do.

Take on the attitude of ‘never mind all that’.

Healthy? Probably not, but it’s what they were taught. Filbrick and his wife were never the most emotive of people and they passed that down to their sons. So while Stanley certainly comforted Ford at the beginning of his crying jag (he could do no less) but he knows when it’s best to pull back. When it’s best to act as if nothing is out of the ordinary.

Pride – it’s a Pines family credo, a staple of their make-up. And while there’s no shame in crying, there is a moment where one has to recover. And the Pines family prefers to do that alone. So Stan gives Ford the chance to do that, picking up the can of beans and returning to the cabinets. He finds a can opener, a pot, and sets up everything on the rickety stove, heating up the questionable mush that comes out of the can.

He then finds two bowls, two spoons, and a couple of glasses. The water that chugs out of the tap comes out a bit rusty at first, but eventually gives way to a clear stream – especially after Stan gives the faucet a couple of rough taps. He fills both glasses and looks out the nearby window to see snow and a fuckton of it.

It falls in heavy, hefty white drifts – making everything glow an eerie, nigh iridescent white. Summer had just begun in Glass Shard. Stan remembers distinctly thinking that that was a blessing in disguise – that at least his family hadn’t cast him aside in the cold months. What, with no real roof over his head and all…

This takes his mind back to his crashed car downstairs – spots on his face suddenly ringing with pain, reminding him balefully that – oh, yes, he’d been in an accident, albeit not a fatal one. Digging through more drawers Stan finds some thick kitchen towels. He dampens them in the sink, using one to clean his own face and – with the other in hand – he goes to Ford.

His twin has had yet to uncover his face, but Stan knows what lies beneath. Red eyes, tear stained cheeks, dirt, blood, sweat…Ford is a mess. Just as much as Stan is, if not more so, and when he nudges the damp cloth against the back of Ford’s hand, his brother takes it with a surprised hum, followed by a near silent ‘thanks’.

Stan says nothing in return, instead focusing on his own cleansing before he tosses the towel aside and turns to the pot on the stove. The beans inside are lightly bubbling and a heady scent wafts into the air. It’s a meaty rich aroma with just a hint of something spicy beneath. He scoops some into the two bowls and brings them over, then follows with the utensils and glasses of water.

He nudges one of the bowls towards Ford, a silent command to eat as he digs into his own bowl. The taste surprisingly phenomenal. Who knew a can of baked beans could be so wholesome? Then again, it’s been some time since Stan has eaten anything of true substance – he’s been sustaining himself on candy bars and random condiment packets he’s boosted from nickel and dime stores.

Stan’s not proud of it, never thinking of himself as much of a thief, but the desire for survival outweighed his moral compass. Besides, it’s all been small, easy things to pocket. For now. Grimacing, he stirs the beans around and looks up to make sure his twin is eating some.

Ford seems to be stirring the food just as much as Stanley, clearly lost in thought. The circles under his eyes are troublesome, as is the lack of weight on his frame. While Ford always had a bit of a rangier build, he’s now starting to look damn near skeletal. His cheekbones are more pronounced, the clothes he’s wearing hanging on him in a way that hints at the fact that he’s gone down several sizes.

Stan nudges his bowl again and Ford just looks at him. Those eyes…so lost and sad and empty…

There’s only one thing to do.

Obviously.

“Bon Appitits, Sixer.”

A shaky laugh leaves Ford, taking away the age, the weight – making him look leagues better – as he finally takes a spoonful and eats it. After a thick swallow, he shakes his head ruefully and murmurs, “I do believe you mean ‘Bon Appétit’, Stanley.”

Stan just shrugs and Ford laughs again as they continue their meal. The way they soon throw caution to the wind and begin working through the food highlights how much they both needed it, their bowls practically licked clean by the end. Stan takes the dishes away, rinsing them and remarking dryly, “Can’t believe something from a can called Baron Num Nums would taste so good.”

“Hmm, well they are an excellent source of protein. Not to mention a more than adequate meal.”

“Oh yeah! Bet they’re great for fartin’!”

Ford rubs at his face and stretches in his chair, a smile clear in his voice, “I yet again question my decision in bringing you back…”

Stan takes no offense, taking the teasing for what it’s worth, “When did you first question it?”

“Somewhere between the remark about my being ancient to the Bon Appitits comment.”

“Can’t help it if I’m made of comic gold,” Stan returns to the table, sitting across from his brother once more, “I’ll be more’n that when these beans hit.”

“…Jesus Christ…”

“Gonna rip some great big juicy ones…”

“You. Are. Disgusting.” Ford enunciates each word, but the affection behind them is palpable. It translates so easily to ‘you are wonderful’ that Stan smiles broadly, pleased as punch, “How’s about you tell me about how you came to be so old. You said I _didn’t_ time travel, right?”

Ford draws in a breath, “Well, I suppose you did – in point of fact. I withdrew you from an earlier point in time – regardless of whether or not it was an alternate universe, dimension, or timeline. You no doubt came from much earlier than now – seeing as this is the 80s, after all.”

“WHOA!” Stan holds up both of his hands, “Hold up – 80s as in 1980s?”

Ford yawns, covering his mouth, but nodding just the same and Stan is wide eyed with wonder, “Holy shit! Where’s your jetpack?!”

“No jetpack, I’m afraid. But there have been many strides forward in the field of science. What I created downstairs alone should be proof of that.”

“Yeah,” Stan scratches at the back of his head, “What _was_ that down there? Made me total the Diablo AND put a kink in my neck…”

Ford fidgets, eyes on his hands again. Stan knows that tell. Time hasn’t changed all that much. Ford always looks at him hands when he’s ashamed or shy. Stan wants to tell him not to be, that he hates when Ford does that. Ford doesn’t have anything to be ashamed of or shy about – not when Stan’s around. Yes, the last time he’d seen him, they’d had a falling out. but this – whatever exactly _this_ is – it changes everything.

It makes things a bit like they were before. He feels more on an even keel with his twin again, never mind the fact that this technically isn’t _his_ twin or whatever. The person near him, the man he’s looking at, he might be older, but he’s still Stanford Pines. He’s still Stan’s Poindexter, his Sixer, his…

…and it’s best not to go down that road. It’s best to just focus on Ford as he finally talks, “As I’ve told you, your…counterpart, died at the age you are now. After our family dissolved and I finished school, I dedicated myself to finding a way to bring you back. It was too late to do so biologically, so I knew I would have to resort to other means.”

“Wait – you was gonna try and Frankenstein me?” It’s asked in a way that’s one part incredulous, two parts amusement. There’s no way Ford was going to do that. And yet his brother’s expression and sullen silence makes Stan think he doesn’t know him as well as he thought. He coughs into one hand and feels a momentary awkwardness. Ford…bringing him back from the dead like some mad scientist…

…yikes.

Ford continues on as if Stan hadn’t asked, “As you know, I’ve always had a penchant for anomalies. I found that this place, Gravity Falls, has the highest concentration for such things, so I used my grant money to move here, to have this place built to my own specifications. I did a plethora of research, discovered a wild world of weirdness but nothing – nothing that could answer my dilemma – nothing that could bring you back.”

The breath that leaves him now is heavy, exhausted, and Stan can see how worn out Ford is. How weathered. He contemplates asking him to stop, but it seems to him as if spilling all this out is something of a relief for his brother, even despite his fatigue, “I had worked up a grand theory on the matter. On how this place connects to another dimension that spills its strangeness into ours and that led me to pose the question, would accessing this region offer me the answer I seek? I wasn’t sure, but I _did_ know I was reaching the very end of my patience. I’d been trying for over a decade to bring you back and I was prepared to take any measures necessary…even if it meant making a deal with the devil himself…”

Stan has a whole pack of Satan jokes on lock, but the look that comes over Ford’s face…the abject fear… stops him cold. The whites of Ford’s eyes seem to stand out now – round, hollow eggs with dark, deep centers, black and endless, “I found one. A devil. A demon. He…sounded like you, in some ways. Said things you would. Called me ‘Sixer’. Stroked my ego, played on my emotions, my grief…he sold me such sweet sympathies and I, ever the fool, ate it all up.”

Ford rubs at his face hard now, harder even than when he was crying, pressing so hard Stan wants to draw his hands away, but he only listens on, “This demon; Bill Cipher, I…I let him in my mind. My _mind,_ Stanley. I let him in, because he said it would help, because I began to view him as my Muse, my Answer…as my way to bring you back…”

It takes all of Stan’s willpower not to smack his brother upside the head. Letting a demon in your mind? What the hell?! And the bitter grin that shapes Ford’s mouth hints that he’s reading Stan’s thoughts, “I know, I know. It was beyond foolish of me. But Stanley…you have no idea…”

He looks at him now and the fear is gone, replaced yet again with the weariness, the sorrow, as he whispers, “No idea, how much I wanted you back. I was willing to go that far, I was willing to do anything – _anything_ – to bring you back…”

Stan finally speaks, “Take it that _that_ was what was downstairs, then?”

A nod, “A portal. Cipher helped me build it. Along with a buddy of mine from college, Fiddleford. There were some…misfires when we first used it. Fiddleford suffered for that. Left the project. He told me to drop it, to let it go…but I couldn’t. I just-” his voice breaks once more with raw emotion, “-I just _couldn’t_.”

Stan merely nods because he understands. While he thinks Ford giving up his mind to a demon is downright insane, he gets the reasoning. Stan can’t say he wouldn’t go that far if their positions were reversed. In fact, if anything, he can guarantee it. There’s no end to the lengths he would go to if he thoughts there was someway he could bring Ford back from the dead.

“But it-it did become clear – after a time – that Bill was using me. Manipulating me. Once I discovered that…I vowed to lose all the knowledge I had on the portal. I made sure it couldn’t be rebuilt but I-you see, I still had to use it. I _had_ to. In order to bring you back…so I-I did what I could, to lead Cipher to think I was still using it for his purposes…his being to bring his world into ours. I let him believe it right up to the moment where I-where I switched gears and reached out for you. But how I reached for you…”

Ford groans now, his forehead dropping down to the table, his words somewhat muffled, “Cipher’s been playing with my mind on and off for months. _Months_. Blurring my understanding of reality. A punishment for disobeying him. So much so that even now, even when I operated it to bring you, I’m…I’m not exactly sure _what_ I did.”

He sits up again, sighs, “I-I don’t know if I intended to bring you out of the past of my own timeline or if I meant to pluck you from elsewhere. I don’t know, I truly don’t, I-I just know…”

Ford stares at him and Stan is almost physically struck by it, his face so full of sheer longing, “I wanted you back, Stanley. I _needed_ you back.”

Stan rubs a hand over his mouth. He gets to his feet and walks in a slow circle, ending with his back facing his brother. He closes his eyes and lets all of this wash over him. Jesus. His stomach rolls and he shakes his head, eyes closed against a wave of self-loathing, “Sixer-! Stanford-! I-I just…”

He hears the sound of Ford’s own chair scraping back against the linoleum. Hears his brother get up and walk over to him. A warm six-fingered hand rests on one of his shoulders and Stan shrugs it off, turning to him with a scowl, “You shouldn’ta done alla of this! You shouldn’t’ve-! Shouldn’t-!”

“I know, Stanley,” Ford says softly, gently, “I know I went about this badly. I know I’ve taken you from your world and deposited you into one not your own. It…It was wrong of me. Wrong and selfish and I apologize for it. I’ll-I’ll do what I can to return you to your proper place, but I-I wish to thank you…”

“Thank me?” Stan barks a laugh and the words come out sharp, cruel. Ford looks confused by the bitterness he hears, “Yes. You’ve-you’ve allowed me some-some semblance of closure and I-!”

“I’m not your Stan,” he intones and Ford looks as if Stan clocked him in the jaw. And Stan hates this. Hates himself. But this has to be said. This has to be done. Here Ford is…beating himself up, feeling terrible, and he doesn’t even know what he’s done. Doesn’t even know the Stanley he’s got. The Stanley he fished out of whatever dimension or timeline or universe or whatever-the-fuck.

…of ALL the Stans Ford could’ve gotten…

“I-I know that…”

“We ain’t brothers.”

“…yes, I-I understand…”

“And even if I was,” Stan growls, “Even if I _was_ your Stanley, I’d be a sight better than the Stan I am. You understand?”

It’s clear Ford doesn’t. He looks totally lost now and it’s unfair. It’s unfair of Stanley to do these things, to say them. Ford is clearly at his wit’s end. Exhausted and worked to the bone. But Ford’s vented and now Stan finds he needs to do the same. He needs to do this, to say this, so he just keeps right on, “Your Stanley…he was probably a good guy. Maybe even a saint…the way _you_ paint him. But me?”

Another nasty chuckle escapes, “I sure as hell ain’t. I’m-I’m a fuckin’ _mess_ , Sixer. A _mess_. You’d be better off,” he shakes his head, looks down at his feet, “Better off seeing the back of me.”

“Stan, that’s not true. I-! E-even if you’re not _my_ Stanley, you no doubt have similar ideologies. Similar views on family and-!”

“HA!” this is, without a doubt, the sourest sound he’s managed – which is a feat in and of itself – and he looks up at Ford sharply, “You don’t get it, you knucklehead! Sure, I was mad when Dad kicked me ta the curb, when you turned yer back on me – but frankly? Frankly, it was all for the best. All things considered.”

“All-all-? All things-?” Ford can’t even seem to repeat these words. To interpret them. It’s as if Stan is speaking a foreign language and Stan’s jaw sets, teeth griding as his head shoots up and he locks eyes with his twin, poking a stiff finger into his chest as he hisses, “Like I said: I ain’t _your_ Stan. I am fucked up beyond all repair and if you only _knew_ …”

“Knew what, Stanley?” Ford breaks in and now he seems a little angry too, bewildered and frustrated as he flaps his arms uselessly, “Tell me! Come on then! I’ve shared with you! What do you think is so different, so awful, about yourself in comparison that you think that I-!”

“Just-!” the stunted word whips out of Stan as his hand lowers, as he runs it quickly through his hair and he eyes his twin (not his twin) and his jaw works again. Stan searches Ford’s face; searches it as he looks up (taller bastard…) and he makes up his mind. Makes it up and reaches out, taking Ford’s arms in his hands hard, dragging him over roughly and kissing him.

Kissing him.

Stanley kisses Ford and leaves no doubt in his mind, or in his brother’s, what kind of kiss this is. In what he’s about.

He kisses him.

Stan kisses Ford fully, hungrily, right on his mouth.

And to hell with the consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nod to Aimy [ for this artwork.](https://nekoaimy.tumblr.com/post/638066719460605952/tstan30ford) While drawn before this story, I loved the look of the scene too much not to use it.


	3. Chapter 3

Ford's eyes go wide.

His brother is kissing him.

Stanley is...

He'd seen the momentary uncertainty when his twin approached. Watched as a look of sheer determination came over him, but he'd never imagined...

His eyes feel painfully large, opened to their fullest extent as Stan's mouth, his _tongue_ -! Stan's tongue passes over his lips, hot and searing and searching...entreating, trying to enter, and Ford feels a hard shudder pass through him.

His initial reaction is not revulsion - which, he supposes, it should be. This is incest - after all - that Stanley's committing, that much is abundantly clear. But instead of immediately pushing his sibling away and responding with disgust, he just...stands there. His mind unable to process this, unable to react. His body did, but his mind...

And he's not even sure if the shudder is a negative one. No, if anything, his physicality is...stirred. Stan's breath coolly brushes against saliva slick skin as his head changes its angle, a rasp of patchy stubble against more matured stubble...

Everything seems heightened, yet otherworldly. It's as if Ford is outside himself or too far in or... he's lost and stupid and they are related, he should tell him to stop. He should tell him they can’t do this. He should do _something_. _Anything_!

His jaw drops slightly, the most miniscule of movements either to speak or to offer more or both whatever his plans they don’t matter - because Stan's tongue finds its entrance. It slides inside with an elegance Ford would never have thought his twin possible of. It flicks over Ford's and when? When was the last time Ford was kissed? Touched? When was the last time he felt desired? Has he _ever_ felt desired?

It's like a match to dry kindling, the way it all bursts and blurs - a hot flame devouring anything and everything in its path. Ford's eyelids lower, become heavy as a sound comes from his center, something like a groan, but more primal, and then Stan...stops.

He draws back and rubs one thumb along his bottom lip, clearly savoring his actions. Ford's whole body bows forward, chasing the kiss, confused by the loss of it, and perhaps that's why Ford's next words are so bald, "Wh-why?"

Stan just blinks at him. As if he didn't just commit a cardinal sin, as if he didn't just blow apart Ford's understanding of the world with one deed. In fact, he has the audacity to grin and just shrug, "Figured why not."

"Why not?!" Ford repeats, voice a tad squeakier and more shocked than he'd prefer.

"Yeah," Stan supplies simply, "Mean, what could it hurt? We agreed - I'm not your brother and I've always wanted to. Besides, you got yer 'catharsis'," he air quotes the word, "Thanked me for it. Feel like I was owed my own. 'S not like you've got to worry 'bout it, seeing as you’re already set to send me off."

"I'm not-! I haven't-!" Replies war in his mind, fighting to get out of his mouth first and thus tumbling over one another in half aborted protests.

Stan appears unmoved, "Look, don't work yerself up inta knots over this. If anything, what I just did should make this a lot easier. No doubt your Sainted Stan would've never tried any funny business like that kiss I just pulled. He probably wasn't a perverted freak with a hard on for a member of his own family like I am, so-!"

"Wait, wait, wait! Just-! Just give me a minute, I-!" Ford wishes he didn't sound so frantic, so much like he can't compute what's happening. But that's the thing.

He can't.

Stanford Filbrick Pines. With his massive IQ and towering intellect can't process what Stan is saying, what he's done, how he...feels. Not just what _Stan_ feels, but he himself. How does Ford feel about this? All of this?

Stan's actions, his words, his...

Ford needs more data. He needs to rationalize, to explain, to find his footing, he needs...

He moves swiftly, one hand reaching out and cupping Stan's left cheek. Now it's Stan's eyes that widen. A wild, hunted look comes over his somewhat boyish features, "Sixer, what're you-!"

"Shh, just-just..." Ford's words are almost a parody of Stan's earlier, right before he kissed him. Which is fitting. Considering Ford's other hand rises up, cupping the right side of Stan's face. He holds his twin's face in his hands and looks down into it. Ford’s taller - how is he taller? Only a few scant inches, but still...

They used to be the exact same height. They would be, if they were the same age. They were _supposed_ to be the same age. His Stan should have lived and _this_ Stan...

Large, beautiful young eyes. Brown and deep and fearful and they shouldn't be. They should never be fearful, should never carry worry. Stan should always be carefree and happy and Ford's thumbs start caressing his skin, gentle up and down sweeps along his cheekbones as he edges closer. _Closer_.

Ford's head turns just slightly as it lowers, as he seals his lips over Stanley's. It's a whisper of a kiss, hardly any force to it, but the whimper that leaves Stan at it makes Ford's whole body clench.

His hands move up, fingers starting to weave their way through his dark, thick hair as Ford increases the pressure, as he gently let's his tongue light over Stan's lips and Stan tugs away, his movements rough with struggle, hands covering Ford's and dropping them back down to his face, "Don't-!"

Ford stops immediately, draws back, but not completely. No, he still has Stanley in his grasp, his hold gentle, but firm, as Stan growls, "Don't do me no favors, Stanford! You don't hafta-!"

"I know," he replies quietly, assuredly, and at that, he eases back in. Eases back in and Stan lets him come, the fight dropping out of him as Ford purrs against his mouth, "I know..."

This time the kiss is mutual. They both come together, move towards one another, and lips part easily. Tongue tangle, wet and insistent and the tickling sounds of their kissing is light, hushed.

At first.

But then Ford turns him, turns Stan and pushes him back until his back meets a wall in the kitchen and suddenly all bets are off. It's as if a dam has broken, a race pistol sounded, and suddenly they're all over one another. Ford's grip becomes rough, demanding, hands leaving hair to go to hips, to ass, squeezing and grasping and a hefty grunt of pure pleasure leaves him. Or maybe Stan. Maybe both.

Stan claws at his back, blunt fingers digging in, dragging down as Ford draws Stan's legs up, gripping the faded denim and Stan goes, rises, legs entwining around his brother's middle, easing beneath Ford's trench coat to make it billow as they fall back against the wall, a heated lump of lust.

Stan's whole body undulates, their hips grinding, the bulges of their erections dueling to create an incredible friction as they mimic the act of sex, thrusting against one another. Ford’s breathing goes ragged, his heart thundering at a riotous pace as he finally peals away from the kiss, his mouth going to feast along the left side of Stan's neck.

His twin's head falls back, bearing his throat to the licks and bites Ford is willing to offer, a choked moan of Ford's name escaping him and this feels _good_ , this all feels _so_ good. And _warm_. Warm and oddly comforting and Ford is nuzzling against Stan's skin, the scent of him filling his lungs - that long forgotten scent of sand and surf and a hint of clean soap and his eyelids are so _heavy_ and his body is so _heavy_ and _warm_ and Stan, Stan...

"...ixer? Sixer? FORD!"

The shout makes Ford jerk upright, makes him look at Stan, who is grinning - lips red from kisses - and he rolls his eyes as he affectionately mutters, "You’re falling asleep on me."

Ford just hums in disbelief, shaking his head sluggishly, but Stan merely laughs, the sound thick with arousal, "Yeah, you are. Falling asleep while kissing me - unbelievable. I'd be offended if I didn't know how tired you are."

"M'not tired," Ford argues, but even he can hear how false that is. Stan shakes his head and carefully starts uncoiling their bodies, his feet finding the ground even as his hand dips beneath his jeans to adjust himself. Ford finds himself unconsciously mirroring his actions, his dick aching with desire, but his whole being aching with a need to sleep.

He wags his head like a dog trying to shake off water, trying to recover himself, trying to find some semblance of alertness, but Stan just clucks his tongue, “Looks like this’ll have to be continued. Gotta get you ta bed, old timer.”

“I’m barely in my thirties,” Ford grouses, “Not _that_ old…”

“OIder’n me by about a decade. Used to be just a few minutes.”

“Fifteen.” Is the rapid response and Stan sighs deeply, “ _Jeez_ , still love hold that over my head. Don’t get why _that’s_ okay, but being about ten or so years more is too much to take.”

"Twins," comes out sad and low. Ford wants to elaborate, wants to point out how they should only be separated by fifteen minutes instead of fifteen years. Okay, so that’s a clear exaggeration. But while they're not divided by _that_ big of a gap in time, the idea is still there. The point is still there.

They're twins - not regular siblings with blocks between. They're connected, close. They're _one_. Two halves of a whole. Ford lost his half and he's so sick of it. So sick of this empty hole inside himself that Stanley used to fill.

 _His_ Stanley.

This Stanley...

He's young. He's a child. He's...not right, not what Ford intended. Or is he? Had Ford meant to pluck his brother from the moment of his death - to save him? And if he had - if that'd been his intent - would Ford have been disappointed they were not the same age? Not the same as they used to be?

How would he have correlated this had he actually succeeded in getting _his_ twin? What's he to do now? With the Stan he _does_ have? Ford's tongue is thick, his emotions steam rolling over him and he's so heavy and burdened and he can't speak, can't think, can't-!

Suddenly his hand is engulfed in another and there's a pull, a tug, and his feet are moving one in front of the other without his volition. Stan asks softly, "C'mon - where's your room?"

The yawn that escapes Ford is hefty, his jaw cracking loudly even as he manages, "Stairs."

He's become monosyllabic. Idiotic. Stan doesn't respond to his sudden shortcomings. Instead he drags him along - a puppy on a leash. He finds the stairs, guides them upwards and Ford feels as if he's floating, swimming, flying.

Everything is tinged in grey, white, and pale blue. His bedroom is discovered and it lies in shadows. The windows to the outside are encased in a mix of ice and condensation, the blizzard outside still raging.

Stan takes a hold of his tie, undoing it swiftly and then easing his trench coat off so it falls with a muted thump. Ford's eyebrows knot together, tone thick with sleepy confusion, "Thought...t'be continued..."

A deep chuckle, "Not undressing you for any funny business, dumb dumb. Just trying to get you comfortable."

He wants to argue those words, but conversation seems like an insurmountable task at the moment. More so, when Stan nudges him back on to his bed. The mattress beneath him feels like a cloud - he can't recall if it's ever felt as comfortable as it feels right now.

The comforter, his sheets, his pillows - they all feel heavenly. Rich and soft, but there's a slight chill to them, causing him to shiver, causing a sliver of awareness to take hold, to make him speak, "Stanley, told you...Cipher. Been in my mind. 'S why I've avoided sleep, can't let m' guard down, ‘s not safe-!"

"Then move over, doofus," Stan grunts, albeit the words colored with tenderness. Ford moves about with the kind of troubled air that borders on simplemindedness, the sheer act of adjusting himself beneath the covers in order to make room for his brother coming across as idling and awkward.

It should be easy, but right now nothing seems that way. Not until Stan is in the bed next to him, not until he cuddles Ford close, heating everything with his natural body heat and whispering, 'It's okay, Sixer. I'll watch over you. Won't let no demons bite' does Ford feel like things are all right.

This isn’t what Cipher wanted. With the portal destroyed, maybe he’s gone. Maybe this can be good. After all, Stanley is…

 _He’s here_.

 _He’s alive_.

Those words echo in Ford’s thoughts and he lets out a breath he wasn’t even aware he’s been holding. It has so much weight behind it that it feels as if he’s been holding it ever since that awful, awful night. The one where he first lost him.

But Ford finally has him back now. He’s in his _arms_. He can feel his heartbeat, his pulse, his breath as he breathes and he can feel his…his very _being_. He’s thrumming with life. Stanley, his brother, his twin – _here_. Here with him, at last. The hole within Ford…it feels as if it’s closed some. As if it’s healing. He feels…

 _Perfect_.

And, for the first time in a very, _very_ long time, Stanford Pines falls into the dark embrace of sleep with a smile on his face.

+

When Stan wakes up, Ford is still asleep.

Big surprise.

Normally Stan is the one who sleeps as if dead to the world. Ford has always been the lighter sleeper of the two, but Stan can tell that as of right now, his twin is going to sleep through just about anything. He snores some, deep dragging noises that make Stan chuckle, because he can’t recall his brother snoring like this when they were…

His first thought is ‘younger’, which is ridiculous. But then, what about this situation isn’t? Stan looks around the room. The sun has risen outside, but it’s still dim in the bedroom. Muted sunlight comes in through the frosty windows, but enough to showcase how the place is…well, it’s a dump, really.

Neither of the Pines twins are known for their cleanliness. It used to drive their mother nuts. But even this is a bit much. Abandoned plates crusted with old crud, clothes everywhere, crumpled up papers scattered around.

With Ford fast asleep and not much else to do, Stan finds himself gingerly rising from the bed to start straightening things up. He’s not normally the type excited at the prospect of tidying a room, but right now, he figures why not? Besides, he did promise Ford he’d watch over him and he doesn’t feel much like sleeping anymore – so why not clean the place up a bit?

It’s not like Ford’s going to wake up. The guy looked like he needed about a couple years’ worth of sleep, so now that he’s under, he’ll probably just stay that way. And that’s good. Stan would like to see the dark circles beneath his twin’s eyes disappear. Once those are gone, maybe Stan can help with his other issues – like putting some meat on his bones.

Even though Ford is older (whether by minutes or years) Stan has always thought of himself as his brother’s protector, his guardian. He likes to be there for him, to take care of him, and this is just one of many ways to do that. Helping him get the proper amount of sleep, cleaning his room, seeing him fed.

Stan wanders into the bathroom and finds some cleaning supplies beneath the sink. He goes about scrubbing things down, wiping away dirt and dust – banishing stains. He collects up all the clothes and puts them into a hamper. He tosses the trash into the appropriate bin and gathers up things that should probably go back down the stairs and into the kitchen sink.

He cleans and cleans until there’s nothing left _to_ clean. Once done, he wipes traces of sweat from his brow and nods to himself. The room looks like new. Neat and tidy and with a pleasant citrus scent to it. And Ford? Ford continues to snore, having slept through it all – even the times Stan worried his cleaning spree might be too loud.

Through it all, Stan made sure to occasionally peek at his brother, but there were no strange reactions. No facial twitches, no tossing and turning. Nothing to indicate that Ford is suffering from some inner demon. From this ‘Cipher’ character and Stan’s not entirely sure he understands everything Ford said about the miscreant. Hell, he’s not even sure if the demon actual exists.

Ford was clearly pushed to his limit. Exhausted, consumed with years of long loneliness and grief – after all, that’s _clearly_ why the kissing happened. Ford wasn’t in his right mind. Kissing his brother, touching him like that…only someone on the edge of sanity would go through with those actions.

 _Then what’s your excuse_? His thoughts sneer, but Stan just lifts one shoulder and lets it fall, a rueful smile on his face. The answer to that is simple. He doesn’t have one. He’s just sick. He knows that – _has_ known it, since the very moment he realized he was in love with his _brother_. Normal people don’t fall in love with their siblings, so Stan recognizes he isn’t normal.

Ford is. True, Ford’s a genius and extraordinary and everything, but at the end of the day – he’s a normal human being. Not a freak. Funny that, that he thinks his hands make him that way. His hands are by far more normal than Stan’s desires, his sick urges, his demented feelings. Protecting your brother is one thing – loving him is another. And loving him the way _Stanley_ loves him?

Stan breathes in deep and looks at the man in the bed. The _man_. He’s not the same age as Stan. He’s _not_ his brother. Yet he _is_. Older and probably wiser and…Jesus fucking _Christ_ , so _handsome_. Stan never actually imagined how his twin would look when he grew older; but seeing him now – it’s almost unfair. How gorgeous, how beautiful he’s become.

He teased him about his age, but if anything, Ford simply blossomed. Matured, like a fine vintage wine, into something richer and sweeter. Even in his weakened state, he’s attractive. Fully healed? He’ll be devastating. Stunning beyond description and sometimes Stan has a hard time believing they’re identical.

There are so many differences. Not only intellectually, but physically there are some alterations. Stan’s body lent itself to something heftier – he has no doubt he’ll probably be fat when he reaches Ford’s age. And if not fat at the very least…thick. Unappealing. And his skin…

He runs a hand over his acned chin – the zits might clear up, but he’ll probably never have the chiseled manly look Ford has achieved. Albeit a nerdy manly. This helps lighten Stan’s mood some, but not completely. Because facts are still facts – Ford is a good looking, normal man and Stan is a freak of nature with features to match.

When Ford wakes up, he’ll be somewhat restored. And when he is, he’ll no doubt be horrified by the kisses they shared. The absolute shame he’ll feel over it will probably make him clam up, will make him focus more on returning Stan to his own timeline or world or dimension or whatever the fuck.

Stan’s nostrils flare, eyes quickly awash in a hot, watery wave. He doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want to go back to where he came from. His Ford turned his back on him. His father cast him out. His mother did nothing. He lost his entire family and to go back to that…

It’s only been a month, but a month is enough time to know they aren’t going to forgive him. They aren’t going to take him back. He’s been disowned, abandoned. He’s on his own. And on his own, Stan isn’t sure he’s going to make it. In fact, he’s pretty damn sure he’s on the fast track to homelessness. Yes, there’s his car – but with it currently a crumpled heap downstairs, he doesn’t even have _that_.

Stan knows now he has to do what he can to convince this Ford to let him stay. To…well, to _keep_ him. Maybe if he proves himself useful, maybe if he shows his worth, Ford will change his mind. Yes, initially Stan tossed caution to the wind when Ford stated his intentions to send him back – kissing him because he always so, _so_ desperately wanted to…but he can control that!

He got some kisses – it’s out of his system now, right? Stan looks at Ford sleeping there, feels the familiar pangs in his heart and immediately concludes that he’s lying to himself. But Sixer doesn’t have to know that. He can fool his twin – he knows he can. And while he hates to pull a grift on his own blood, it’s worth it to keep a roof over his head.

To keep his twin around.

Even if this isn’t really his twin, his brother, his blood – this is still _a_ Stanford Pines. One that could be his. One that could maybe care for him, see his value. Stan knows he’s a fuck up. Breaking his brother’s science project was merely the last in a very long line of mistakes. He never could do anything right and that? Costing his brother a chance at a scholarship? At boatloads of money? At a _life_? That was the final straw.

Stanley understands that better than anyone. But to pay for it the way it looks like he’s going to…

To be homeless, friendless, without family…isn’t that a bit extreme? Did the cost have to be so high? What about Saint Stanley? This Ford’s true brother? From what Stan’s gleaned, he too broke the machine. But after being tossed out of house and home he died. If he had merely been injured, would he have been welcomed back?

Or perhaps even that wouldn’t have been necessary. He doesn’t know all the differences – and there must be more. Maybe this Stan made a mistake – was tossed aside; but was otherwise fine. He certainly didn’t have a disgusting incestual interest in his brother. He was _normal_. Normal, the one thing Stanley most definitely is not.

Not normal, a total fuck up – and he wants to prove his worth? His value? Stan rubs at his neck with both hands, head tipping back. God, he’s got an uphill climb ahead of him. His head lowers and he nods to himself, because he can do this. He can rise above, he can overcome. He’ll simply ignore his urges as he’s always done and he’ll…he’ll try to be better. He _will_ be better.

Stan can do this. It doesn’t even have to be a grift, a lie – he can be the person he wants to be. He just has to dedicate himself to it. Has to put all his willpower towards being the best version of himself, which, granted – isn’t all _that_ great, but still. It’s a sight better than who he is now.

This in mind, he looks around the room and decides that this was just the first step. There’s more to be done. A lot more. The downstairs is still a mess. And there’s a cold bite to the air. In opposition of Stan, Ford’s always run cold. His skin carrying a bit of a chill. This place has a couple of fireplaces – starting a fire would be an excellent move.

Stanley can handle that. Honestly, starting fires is something he’s sort of a pro at. The thought makes him grin and he looks to his twin again. Ford is still sleeping soundly – Stan doesn’t think it will hurt him tremendously if he sneaks out to get some firewood. He edges out of the room and works his way down the stairs, wincing whenever he hits a creaky step.

Amongst the vast refuse downstairs he finds a thick coat, some gloves, and an axe. Enough to guarantee that he can gather some burnable materials. He gets himself situated and ready to head out, thinking to himself about how industrious he can be. Ford will see it – recognize it for what it is.

People have doubted Stan’s abilities before, but every now and then he’s surprised them. Take Rico for example, he never thought Stan could pull off that job in Rio, but…but…

Stan’s in the process of tying some boots he’s found and now he frowns, eyebrows knitting together, a thrumming pain starting in the base of his brain. Rico? Who-? Who’s Rico? And Rio…he’s never been to Rio in his life…

…and yet the memories are so _clear_. The hot air – it had been sweltering. Rio’s sweaty face and thick black moustache. Stanley in a tropical shirt and chatting up some locals and the annoying mosquito bites on his ankles he had to avoid itching in order to settle this deal and…

Stan rubs at his eyes, a deep frown taking his face. What the fuck? That never happened to him. Why is he remembering something like that? But then, just as quickly as the ‘memory’ comes, it eases away. It was like a dream. Or a vision. His imagination…and yes, yes – that must be it. Just his imagination.

Stanley takes in a hefty breath and finishes tying his shoes. He grabs the axe and heads out into the snow, ready to search for firewood even as he chuckles to himself. Rico, Rio…his imagination isn’t even that clever – two things that sound so close together. And as for the rest of it, the clearer parts, well…a guy can dream, can’t he?

Not a good dream, perhaps, but that’s certainly what it is. Because it can’t be anything else. It can’t be a memory, because it’s not something that happened to him. He trudges out into snow that’s several feet deep and decides to forget about all of that and simply focus on the job at hand.

The job of showing Ford that he’s worth a damn and that he’s worth keeping.

**Author's Note:**

> Remember when I was going to finish ANY of my other languishing wips and be productive and instead of that, I chose to do a completely new wip instead?!? And then I posted parts of it early instead of just finishing it up behind the curtain, because I'm always desperate for validation?!? Ahahahaha - okay, so...2020 is still having lingering effects...
> 
> PS - Visiting me via [My Tumblr ](https://cellard0ors.tumblr.com/) is always a blast


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